There Was A Reason
by Behind the Screen
Summary: What if there is a reason behind why Sherlock is cold and detatched from the world? What if there is a reason behind why he doesn't eat, doesn't sleep? What if he had ensured the execution of his own father? What is Mrs Hudson isn't just his landlady?


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (damn...) All of this is a work of fiction.**

**Warnings: Mentions of abuse, murder and alcoholism. Nothing graphic though. It really is just mentions of! :)**

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_There was a reason Sherlock avoided sleep like the plague._

_There was a reason Sherlock spent his time composing maudlin melodies._

_There was a reason that Sherlock threw himself into his cases with all he had._

_There was a reason Sherlock let no one close and shut out the rest of the world._

_There was a reason._

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It had finally rolled round to the end of the day. The sun had sunk below the horizon and 221B was shrouded in a calming darkness. That day, Sherlock and John had closed a particularly gruelling case that had taken at least eight days for Sherlock to finally crack. '_At least' _eight days, because if John was completely honest he was starting to loose track of the days – his sleeping pattern was ruined and he hadn't had a decent meal in God only knows how long. How Sherlock functioned so well on no sleep or food was, frankly, beyond John.

He shook his head in exasperation and stood from his chair in 221B's living room. About an hour ago he had managed to convince Sherlock to go and get some sleep. The man looked half dead. He was much paler than usual, black marks were a good deal more apparent under his eyes and he was even more irritable than normal. John's inner doctor was screaming at him to forcibly make Sherlock eat before he slept, unfortunately, sleep seemed to have hit Sherlock before he had the chance to make any sort of meal. But John couldn't really complain, at least Sherlock was partaking in one activity he had to do in order to survive.

Just as John glanced at the clock he heard a small whimpering noise. Immediately, he paused and ceased breathing for a moment in order to listen more intently. For a few seconds he could hear nothing but the sounds of London passing by. He was about to continue when he heard the noise again. This time it reverberated through the flat, more of a cry out than before. John instantaneously flew into action; he grabbed his gun from the drawer and he ran to Sherlock's room where he hesitantly stopped outside his door.

Slowly, he reached out and pushed the door open, bringing his gun up – poised to shoot if needs be. What John found though, was very much unlike what he had expected.

John had visions of all sorts of scenarios, from a simple robbery to some sort of serial killer breaking in. Perhaps even one of Sherlock's experiments had inevitably gone wrong and hurt him (well it had to happen some time, John thought).

The great consulting detective and high functioning sociopath was, surprisingly, in no danger. He, of all things, was having a nightmare.

John could not have been less prepared for such a moment. He remained in the door way as he watched his flatmate's nightmare unfold before him. He was suddenly struck with a pang of empathy – John knew better than anyone what it was like to be plagued by nightmares… He just hadn't expected Sherlock to have the same problem. What could possibly be weighing so heavily on his mind to have this affect? Tentatively, John stepped forward and lowered his gun, flicking the safety catch back to its original position and sighed heavily.

'What am I going to do with you?' He spoke quietly. He reached out and ever so softly placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. If he was going to wake Sherlock up, he didn't want him jumping into defence mode due to being startled… Because (as much as the detective denied it) he did get startled sometimes.

Despite John's best efforts, Sherlock jerked awake with a gasp; his eyes wide and flicking about the room at such a speed that John would be surprised if he was successfully focusing on anything.

'Hey, Sherlock. You alright?'

Sherlock's head snapped straight to John and he fixed him with a glare.

'Of course I am alright! What would make you think otherwise?'

John chuckled despite himself. 'You were having a nightmare, Sherlock. I mean no offence… But look at the state of you.'

Sherlock glanced down at himself. John was right. He was completely entangled in his bed sheets, he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and he had no doubt that his hair was in a state of disarray too. He let out a breathy sigh of rare resignation.

'Yes, alright, so I am not looking the finest I have done. I will give you that one. But I am fine John… Thank – Thank you for your concern.'

With this he threw himself back down to a lying position and spun away from John. He remained this way for a good few seconds expecting John to quietly get up and leave in order to allow Sherlock to delete the moment of weakness from his memory, perhaps John would try his best to do the same. The doctor however, appeared to have different plans.

'Sherlock, don't you think you should talk about this?'

'No.'

'I'm not leaving until you do.'

'Then you have a very long wait ahead of you.'

'Sherlock…' Sherlock inwardly cringed. John had used his 'determined-growly voice', as Sherlock referred to it as. And as much fun as it was watching John use it on other people, it was not quite as pleasurable when this tone was directed at him.

'There's a reason I don't want to talk about it, John.'

'Everyone has nightmares, Sherlock. It's nothing to be ashamed of.'

_Nothing to be ashamed of_, Sherlock thought. If only John knew. If only John knew what the nature of the nightmare was. If only John knew what caused them. If only Sherlock knew if John would accept him if he knew. Sherlock silently berated himself. Of course John wouldn't accept him if he knew. No ordinary human being would… But then, John wasn't ordinary, was he? John was different. He stayed when no one else did. He thought Sherlock was 'fantastic' and 'brilliant'. Maybe…

'It is something you best not inconvenience yourself with, John. It would only cause problems if you knew.'

John almost felt hurt. He knew it was silly but sometimes he forgot what Sherlock was like. He forgot that he didn't completely trust him like John did Sherlock.

'Just, trust me Sherlock. It can't be that bad – whatever it is. I'm not going to hate you for it. I put up with enough don't I? The body parts in the fridge and your endless days of silence. Even when you leave the flat for days on end and don't even bloody well tell me you're going to leave, I don't like you any less because of it. Telling me about your nightmare isn't going to drive me away. I am made of tougher stuff than that. I was soldier, remember?'

Sherlock clenched his jaw.

'John. You are _not_ going to be okay with this.'

'I am, I –'

'No. You. Are. Not. Go back to your own room.'

John stood up. His posture reverted back to when he was the army as it did when he was angered. He fiercely gazed down at Sherlock. John himself wasn't sure why this made him so angry. Perhaps it was the sleep-deprivation. Perhaps it was the gnawing feeling of hunger. Or perhaps, he had just finally had enough of his flatmate.

'Do you really not trust me? There is nothing more I can do for you, Sherlock! I come running across London when you send me a text. I always do the shopping because you can't be bothered to go. I make sure not to touch your damn experiments and, for some reason beyond me, I help you with your bloody cases… Even though, half the time you don't tell me what's going on! Don't you think that just this once you could tell me? Because sometimes I wonder why I am even bloody well still here!'

Sherlock gritted his teeth and stood up opposite John; his sheet tightly pulled round him and glared down at the older man.

'You have no idea what you are saying, John. I cannot comprehend how you have come to believe that I can do nothing to push you away. I am not a hero, John. What ever opinion you have of me must be false because any normal human being would stay away from a man who sentenced their own father to death without a second thought!'

Both men froze. Both staring in horror at the other as what seemed like an eternity passed them by.

'You shouldn't be here, John… I – I will understand if you leave…'

John made no move. His expression set in completely blank and unreadable expression. And for once, Sherlock did not bother trying to read him. In stead, he shuffled away and sat on the edge of his bed, facing away from the doctor. He made no attempt to speak to him anymore; for he felt that there was not a lot to say.

Eventually, John blinked. Then swallowed. Then blinked again.

'You. You what?'

'Please don't tell me you actually want to talk about this.'

'I… Would like an explanation. I think.'

'You think?'

'Does anyone else-'

'No. No one else knows. Except Mrs Hudson, of course.'

'Of course?'

For what felt like the thousandth time that night, Sherlock let out another sigh. 'You might want to sit down, John.'

After a few moments John cautiously moved to sit next to Sherlock, the bed creaking slightly as he did so.

'I want you to try and listen the whole way through. Don't ask me questions and try to understand.'

'Okay...'

'Thank you, John.' Sherlock let out another deep sigh and brought one hand up to rub his eyes. 'When Mycroft and I were growing up we didn't – well, our father was… He was somewhat abusive.'

This caught John's attention. He glanced up at Sherlock with something that looked like sympathy or pain in his eyes. Sherlock ignored him and carried on regardless. He looked straight ahead, his face hard and blank, as if he were simply concentrating too hard.

'He never touched Mycroft or I. He wouldn't want to damage 'his boys'. But he hurt Mummy. I do not wish to recall what he did to her. Or the things I saw as a boy. Nor is it important any longer. But he liked to drink, he was the typical abusive drunk; always saying how it would stop soon. I always believed him, how could I not? He was my father. So Mycroft and I kept quiet.'

'Then one day when I was nineteen, my father had to travel to Iran. He said it was for work. Of course I knew that was a lie and something was going on, but I agreed when he told me to go with him. When we were there he was no different - still drinking copious amounts of alcohol. A week in, he came home at night, his hands covered in blood. I pretended like I hadn't seen anything.' Sherlock laughed darkly. 'What else could I do? The next day when I saw a murder on the news I couldn't deny it. I went to the police and told them I was a witness. I had all the information I needed to make my story feasible, the bruises, scratches, every mark on him told me what had happened. He sentence was… Well, you know what it was. What it _had_ to be.'

John was completely silent. Sherlock risked a look over to him and his hand twitched at his side, unsure what to do next.

'John? Do you understand?'

John inhaled deeply and thought hard, Sherlock had never felt so nervous in his life. In fact he seldom felt this way and the feeling was rather foreign to him. He picked at a lose thread on his sheet then psychologically cursed himself for letting his emotions show through at such a time. Quickly, he stopped his hands fidgeting and remained, as they say, as still as a statue.

Gradually John seemed to come back to life. He remained, however, looking straight ahead. Not once did his eyes flick from whatever it was he appeared to be focusing on ahead of him.

'I think I have a… theory? That's what you always call it right? In your cases._ 'I have seven theories so far.'_ That's what you always say.'

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. Almost. For John's sake he managed to stop himself. If John continued to ramble aimlessly like this they weren't going to get anywhere.

'John.'

'Yes?'

'Do you understand?'

'I would rather you said it.'

Once more a silence hung between the two men and neither looked at the other.

Finally, Sherlock spoke; his voice low and rough.

'That day when I said I ensured Mrs Hudson's husband's execution. I was talking about my father.'

'Mrs Hudson is my mother.'

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**Tadaa, I think this is a oneshot. It's officially the longest fic I have ever written. Maybe if enough of you want a sequel I could come up with one... I feel a bit mean leaving you with no indication as to John's reaction. But I do like a cliff-hanger ;)**

**Anyhoo, let me know what you think! Reviews are always loved :D**

**BTS x  
**


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